


Dreamer of Dreams

by Tarlan



Series: Dreamers [2]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-06-07
Updated: 2005-06-07
Packaged: 2017-10-19 02:51:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/196033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tarlan/pseuds/Tarlan





	Dreamer of Dreams

_Dreamer of Dreams, born out of my due time  
Why should I strive to set the crooked straight?  
 **William Morris, 'The Earthly Paradise'**_

****

Walter Skinner turned the bulky envelope over in his hands several times, his lips a tight line of annoyance. Kimberley, his secretary, always waited until he had finished that first coffee of the day before bringing in any new post, allowing him the chance to unwind after a hectic journey through the early morning commuter traffic. Today was different, she had handed the package to him as soon as he had walked in, saying that it had come down through the Director's office and needed his immediate attention. He placed it on his desk, removed his coat and then reached for the coffee. Whatever it was, it had waited this long so another few minutes was not going to matter that much.

Sitting at his desk, Skinner sipped the hot, black liquid, savouring the smooth, mellow taste; deeply inhaling the rich aroma that slowly filled the room, bringing a touch of homeliness to the sterile surroundings - and smiled. Chasing away the musty, paper smell of 'office' was always his first task of the day. After all, he spent a lot of his time in this room.

"Hell, Walt, you spend most of your life in here."

He grumbled to himself as usual, keeping his voice low so if his secretary did overhear him talking away, then she would assume he was on the phone.

It was true though. Apart from the twice-weekly visit to the Gym, he seemed to spend most of his waking life at work: more so than ever since the divorce. It was no wonder Sharon had moved on and had found herself another man. Perhaps if they had been able to have kids? But the joys of parenthood had been denied to them. At first they had talked of adopting but, for one reason or another he had procrastinated, putting it off until it was too late. In hindsight, he knew why. Having children was *her* dream, not his. For no matter how much he cared for her, he couldn't cope with the idea of taking responsibility for another life, especially within their sham of a marriage. Oh, he had played the dutiful husband to perfection, never allowing Sharon to see how hard it was for him to share her bed; putting the blame for his lack of sexual drive on the pressures of work. Marrying her had been a grave mistake but, when he returned from Vietnam, confused by so many aspects of his life, still shell-shocked from his near-death experience, she had seemed an anchor that he could hold on to. By the time he realised his mistake it was far too late and, if nothing else, he was an honorable man, taking his vows seriously.

After Sharon had left him he had felt an incredible loneliness, but had still shied away from accepting the truth of his orientation. He had preferred to assuage that loneliness, for a few short hours, with some nameless woman, rather than take the risk of picking up a stranger in one of the many Gay bars that littered downtown Washington DC. After all, he had a reputation to uphold and being caught with a female Hooker was far less damaging than being caught with a 'rent boy'.

Skinner closed his eyes and breathed in more of the coffee aroma, then grimaced. The worst side effect of loneliness was this penchant for deep introspection that seemed to go nowhere. He eyed the thickly padded envelope again as a means of distracting himself from the thoughts that were circling around in his head.

"Aaahh, to hell with it."

Curiosity finally got the better of him and he put down the mug and picked up the slim paper knife, slicing through the brown tape that sealed the envelope. He peered inside, eyebrows knitting together in puzzlement. Finally, he gave up trying to make sense of the contents and tipped the package up. Pieces of metal and plastic bounced across the desktop. He sighed. Whatever it was, some heavy-handed clerk had managed to break it.

A small piece of paper fluttered down amongst the debris. Skinner reached for it, noting the handwritten words on one side. He repeated the words aloud, trying to make sense of them.

"Sorry doesn't always make it right, but I hope this is a start."

He laid the piece of paper on the desk in front of him and sat back in his seat, the frown still creasing his forehead. There was something strangely familiar about the writing. He felt he had seen it many times before but... Skinner removed his glasses to rub a hand, wearily, across his eyes. He couldn't begin to list all the people he felt owed him some sort of an apology, from the ignorant cab driver who had cut him up on the way in... to that duplicitous rat bastard who had made his life a living hell.

That last thought gave him a start.

 _No. It couldn't be._

He leaned forward and depressed the button that connected him to his secretary.

"Kimberley. Would you ask Records to send up one of Agent Krycek's reports. One with handwritten notation."

"Yes, Sir."

He barely noticed the query in her voice, his own thoughts already traveling, uneasily, along a new path. With a tight grimace, Skinner pushed the thoughts aside. Until he could make a comparison there was nothing to be gained by idle speculation. He shoved the mess of broken plastic, metal, and wire to one side, and reached into his in-tray for the first of the many reports that he needed to attend to today. Some time later, he looked up briefly to acknowledge the arrival of today's new post as Kimberley placed a small pile onto the corner of his desk, then he returned to the report he was reading.

Almost an hour passed before she returned carrying a single file.

"Sir, this is the report you requested."

Marking his place, he put aside the document he was reading and took the file, dismissing his secretary with a courteous 'Thank you'.

Skinner grimaced, his mouth a tight line of barely controlled anger as he matched the two sets of handwriting. All he had to do now was figure out what nefarious deed that double-crossing, rat bastard, was apologizing for this time. He reached over and picked up two of the larger pieces of plastic, fitting them together until he could make out what looked like a small logo; Palm Pilot. His eyebrows raised in surprise as another thought made its way through.

"No. It couldn't be."

He dropped the pieces back onto the desktop and picked up the paper, rereading the words.

For one paralyzing moment he almost believed it could be true. That Krycek really had sent him the palm pilot that controlled the nanocytes in his blood, but then paranoia brought him crashing back to Earth. He sneered. Just because it looked like the small black box Krycek had wielded during all their recent encounters didn't mean it *was* the real thing... or the only control device. He wouldn't put it past that rat bastard to send him this as some sort of game to soften him up before another pile of dung dropped on him from a great height.

With a sweep of his hand he pushed all the pieces into the wastebasket by the side of his desk. Staring at them for a while, his thoughts turning to all the ways he would make Krycek pay for the suffering and humiliation he had been forced to endure over this past year, if ever he had the opportunity.

****

11:15 a.m. Washington DC

Krycek checked over his shoulder for the umpteenth time that day and then checked his watch. Time was running out. He had managed to make most of the necessary arrangements but this last task was taking far longer than he had anticipated. His thoughts traveled back to the night before when, with several neat vodkas warming his belly, he had allowed his heart to overrule his head and made a decision that would have far-reaching consequences. Rather than kill Skinner as ordered, he had, instead, destroyed the palm pilot. Packaging up the broken pieces and, in a moment of sheer lunacy, personally taking the package to FBI Headquarters. He gave a sardonic smile as he imagined Skinner opening the package. He had added the note as an afterthought, realising how inadequate it was and yet needing to 'say' the words 'I'm sorry', though he doubted Skinner would accept his apology so easily.

 _Probably thinks it's just another game._

His second task of the day had been harder to arrange but, once set upon this road, he knew it was the most important. He had to ensure no-one else was given the task of killing Skinner once Spender realised he had no intention of following the elimination order. To this end he had called in every marker owed, leaving himself open and vulnerable. He had few illusions. With no one to protect him his chances of survival were slim, but he'd lived with those odds before. All he could do for himself was lie low until an opportunity to save himself arose. He barked out a short, derogatory laugh at his own optimism, then glanced at his watch once more.

With growing fear and frustration Krycek paced back and forth across the narrow room, halting suddenly, mid-stride when the Real Estate agent finally resurfaced.

"Mr Zeitman? I have the necessary papers, if you don't mind signing on this line here... and here."

Krycek forged the signature in both places indicated and then accepted the keys.

"Enjoy your stay."

"Thank you."

He gathered up his copies of the contract and made his way back to his car, giving a final check around before climbing into the driver's seat. Moments later he was pulling out into the traffic, heading towards the Appalachians, where hopefully, he would be able to lie low for a few weeks.

A slight figure detached itself from the shadows of a nearby alley and stared at the fast receding car. Krycek had been ordered to eliminate AD Walter Skinner and he had been ordered to tail Krycek to ensure he carried out his appointed task. At first he had assumed the package Krycek had taken into FBI Headquarters was a bomb, but his associate within the FBI had reported no explosions, and no call to the bomb squad to deal with any suspicious packages.

As the morning progressed Krycek's movements had become highly suspicious. The man was calling in markers from many sources, and he had looked around more anxiously than usual as he placed a holdall into the trunk of his car--like a man who was about to go underground. The man decided to take a gamble and, rather than follow Krycek, he strode across the street to the Real Estate office. He pulled out a very convincing ID and held it close to the manager's face.

"Excuse me, Sir. Special Agent Harris, FBI. The man who was just in here... What was he doing?"

****

Spender placed the handset back onto the cradle and took a deep drag from the ever-present Morley. There were few people higher than him in the Consortium these days, and these high-placed individuals rarely revealed their presence, let alone contacted him directly, so the phone call he had just received from one of them was totally unexpected.

He took another deep lungful of nicotine and tar, savouring the taste and the heady sensation as the drug swept through his blood and into his brain, using the time to consider this phone call and its implications.

Most of the Elders had been killed, along with their families, at the El Rico Air base massacre; a massacre Spender was convinced Krycek had played a vital part in, but he had not been able to prove anything. Instead he had been forced to keep Krycek in his employ, preferring to keep the younger man in plain sight. He had been playing the waiting game ever since, wondering how long it would take before Krycek gave him all the reason he needed to give a final termination order on the young man.

Krycek's recent dealings with Walter Skinner gave him the first clue to where the younger man's loyalties might lie. He had been ordered to test out the full effects of the nanocyte technology and, technically speaking, Krycek had performed this task to the letter. Skinner had died, but Krycek had allowed the man to be brought back. Why? That was the question Spender asked himself. Apart from a few murmurings, no-one had questioned this strange decision to kill the important designer of the technology, Dr Orgel and yet, allow the relatively unimportant AD Skinner to live... no-one except for him.

When he thought back over the past few years, a pattern started to emerge. There had been so many occasions when it would have been more expedient to eliminate Skinner but, instead, Krycek had merely incapacitated the man either physically, by injuring him in some fashion, or psychologically, by blackmailing him.

He inhaled another lungful of cigarette smoke, quietly reflecting on his decision to play out his theory by giving Krycek explicit orders to kill Skinner. He had justified his position by saying it was a necessary means of testing the younger man's loyalty, but had not expected to be ordered to leave Skinner alone. He reached for the phone and started a series of phone calls, but it did not take too many to discover that Krycek was at the bottom of it, calling in favors from all sources.

When the telephone rang once more, Spender picked it up and listened patiently as Harris outlined Krycek's activities; everything gradually falling into place. He gave a single order, disconnected that call and then redialed a new number.

Replacing the phone in its cradle once more, Spender sat back to wait for the leader of a special team of operatives to arrive.

Harris replaced his cellphone in his jacket pocket and pursed his lips in thought. Spender had seemed totally unsurprised to hear of Krycek's strange movements. It occurred to Harris that maybe Spender had some ulterior motive for ordering Skinner's death at Krycek's hand. The fact that AD Walter Skinner was still walking and talking certainly showed a lack of concern on Spender's part. If he truly wanted the AD dead then Skinner would be dead. No. It had to have something to do with Alex Krycek.

He already suspected that Spender had been testing Krycek's loyalty... and finding it wanting. Why else would he set a tail on the man if that were not the case? However, if his suspicions were correct then why had he been given no kill order for Krycek? Why was he still expected to shadow the one-armed Consortium agent?

****

Harris gunned the engine and headed out of the city, on the assumption that Krycek was now on the run to his secret hideaway. If that were the case then Krycek was less than ten minutes ahead of him and, if he were lucky, he would catch up with him on the interstate.

He smiled, enjoying the challenge of tailing someone who was far more astute and observant that the normal run-of-the-mill target, but Harris had many years of covert surveillance under his belt; far more than the young man he had followed about DC. It had not been easy, and there had been one moment when he thought he *had* been spotted. He sighed. With a little training, Krycek would have made a good surveillance operative. Such a shame that he probably wouldn't be alive much longer.

****

One Hour Later

Spender took a thoughtful drag, watching the exhaled smoke coil up towards the ceiling in a twisting blue column, an enigmatic smile playing about his seamed lips. He could not believe his good fortune but, at the same time, he was impressed with his former protégé.

Renting an off-season holiday home was a little dangerous but far less likely to draw attention than breaking and entering on the off chance that nobody would notice the illegal presence for a few weeks. Most of those small communities kept a lookout for each other, and on the slightest suspicion, the local cops would have been called in to check the place over.

His smile widened as Marcus pointed out the cabin's location. It was in a fairly remote area; tucked away just above the tree line. The chances of anyone else being close by at that time of year was also pretty unlikely. Spender ground out the butt end in the ashtray. He could not have planned this any better himself. All he needed to do now was set the wheels in motion, and then he would have his revenge on the man who had forced him to kill his own son.

The phone rang. It was Harris confirming that Krycek had taken the small track up towards the cabin he had rented. Spender told Harris to return to DC, his presence no longer required, then he glanced into the eager face opposite, and nodded his head.

Leroy Marcus gave a wide grin; brilliant white teeth dazzling against his dark skin as Spender, silently, gave the elimination order. He bounced out of the room like a child who had been promised the most treasured toy in the world, and Spender wondered whether that metaphor was more appropriate than anyone could suspect. Marcus seemed to approach his work with a great deal of zeal, more so than he would have expected from a professional hitman.

Spender sat back and lit another cigarette with a strange feeling of unease burning inside, his mind drifting back through his long association with one Alexei Krycek.

He remembered the first time he had ordered Krycek's execution; remembered the remorse he had felt at the time, for Krycek had been a good operative. But, Cardinal had insisted that Alex had been the weak link in the debacle surrounding the stolen MJ-12 tape. If he had not been so tied up trying to save his own reputation within the Consortium then he might have seen through Cardinal's lies.

The attempt on Alexei Krycek was one of the many foul-ups that had come back to haunt him time and time again. He had turned an amenable, eager, intelligent boy into an adaptable, desperate, dangerous but still highly intelligent man. Opportunities to correct his mistake and dispose of Krycek permanently had presented themselves at intervals but there was always someone, or something, either protecting the boy or swaying his decision.

He thought about all the occasions when Krycek should have died...

He had listened to Alex begging to be released; had stood just along the corridor as the thumps and frantic cries filled the dead air, but his hands had been tied. His orders had been to seal the Oilien inside. Krycek was just unfortunate that he had been sealed in with it. When he returned to Silo 1013 two weeks later he had expected to find the ship gone and was not disappointed. However, he had also expected to find the decomposing body of Alexei Krycek. Instead, the silo had been empty. If Mulder's reports were to be believed then Krycek had been saved by a terrorist group who had been on a 'weapons hunt', but Spender knew that no-one had entered the Silo facility let alone released Krycek. The only possible explanation was a source of concern in its own right; the Colonist had released him.

His thoughts moved on a few years....

When Krycek returned from Russia, minus an arm, with the intention of forcing the Consortium to pay for information regarding the Rebel aliens, he had been betrayed by Spender's other disloyal protégé; Marita Covarrubias. If the Englishman had not taken Krycek under his protection then, there was no doubt that Krycek would have been executed by the Russians on his arrival back at Vladivostok. Spender grimaced. If he had not been in hiding at the time then he might have been the one to be tipped off... and, at the time, he would not have hesitated to kill Krycek... boy witness or not; vaccine or no vaccine. The younger man had become a thorn in his side, his involvement with Krycek causing him untold loss of face leading, eventually, to his own near-death experience.

Spender took another lungful of nicotine and exhaled slowly.

He was not the only one who assumed Krycek would follow his new employer, the Englishman, to the grave but, for some unknown reason, Alex had not been chauffeuring on that particular night. If he had not set the bomb himself then he would have been highly suspicious of the double-crossing assassin. However, he had expected the First Elder to make this wrong connection and give orders to have Krycek removed--permanently. Instead Krycek had been elevated in status within the Consortium, and Spender had been forced to take Krycek back under his own wing.

To be truthful, Spender was secretly pleased by that turn of events and, if he had not been one of the intended victims at El Rico then he would reinstated Alex as his protégé. Instead he had been left with his doubts and fears that Krycek was playing a role in a far more complicated and dangerous game. Removing Krycek from the game had become paramount, but those small twinges of remorse had kept him from carrying it through - until now.

Spender felt that strange feeling come over him again but savagely pushed it aside, bringing memories of Jeffrey to the forefront of his mind. Jeffrey: his son. Jeffrey should have been the heir to his empire, but had proved to be weak and ineffectual.

Unlike Alex.

Alex. Alex had been the catalyst in Jeffrey's betrayal. Alex, with his quicksilver mind and honeyed tongue, toying with Jeffrey like a cat with a mouse. On reflection, Spender knew he should have kept them apart but he had hoped some of Krycek's prowess would have rubbed of on the boy. He sneered. In truth, it had, and it had almost been a shame to kill Jeffrey. At the end he had proved he had far more courage than Spender had anticipated. Unfortunately, it had not been to Spender's benefit... and the blame for that lay with Alexei Krycek.

He dropped the butt of the cigarette into the ashtray, fumbling in the pack for a replacement. Sleep would be elusive tonight and he would have to be ready to leave just before dawn. That strange feeling was clawing at his chest again, demanding that he see Alex one more time--to say goodbye.

****

Remote Cabin Upper Appalachians

Krycek dropped his holdall onto the floor and stared around the small, but comfortable looking, living room. It was a little more spartan that he had imagined it would be, and yet, at the same time, far more modern in appearance. He had half-expected a more rough hewn interior to match the location. Not that it really concerned him as it was certainly better than the seamy motel room he had left behind, with its peeling wallpaper and dubious stains and smells. He made a quick pass through the cabin to orientate himself with all the facilities, and then he returned to the car to bring in the provisions. He had stopped off at a small store about ten miles back and picked up enough to keep him well-stocked for the duration of his stay; mainly dried foodstuffs and a couple of bottles of vodka for spiritual comfort. By the time he had packed the last few items away the sun had set. He shivered as the temperature dropped suddenly and made his way back into the living room in search of the heating controls.

It didn't take long before the whole cabin was warm and, after fixing a quick meal, Krycek settled himself down on one of the comfy armchairs and opened a battered paperback. Feeling at peace with himself for the first time in years, Krycek relaxed, taking small sips of the fiery vodka every so often. When he realised he had read the same paragraph three times he bent over the corner of the page and placed the book on the table beside him. He sighed, closed his eyes and listened to the silence.

Eventually his thoughts returned to Walter Skinner but, unlike other times, he allowed those images to flow across his mind's eye, reliving the look and feel of the other man. He had only ever touched Skinner once before, during the fight on the stairwell, but his hands remembered the solid feel of the man, the hard muscle beneath layers of clothing.

His eyes remembered, from that night when Mulder had dragged him handcuffed to Skinner's apartment, salt and pepper hair spattered across the strong pectorals. He had been so enthralled to be in Skinner's home, looking around as if he could gain new insight on the man from the possessions on show, that the sucker-punch to the gut had taken him completely by surprise, but even now, he felt no resentment towards the other man. After all, he had not held back when he had attacked him at the hospital, so Skinner was quite within his rights to exact a little revenge.

He remembered spending the night on that cold balcony, and wondered if he would ever tell Skinner about the 'warm thoughts' he had dwelt upon, as he imagined that powerful figure, lying naked, only a few rooms away from where he sat fully clothed but handcuffed.

Those thoughts returned and he imagined his fingers trailing through the short chest hairs, finding and teasing a small nipple until it puckered with desire.

.....He pulled off his T-shirt, dropping it over the arm of the chair, his fingers mimicking his fantasy upon his own hairless chest.....

His mouth would close upon the sensitive bud, nipping and sucking, and he could almost hear the deep, guttural moan, and feel the strong, blunt fingers holding his head in place, as Skinner demanded more. Eventually, Skinner would release him, pulling his face up for a kiss and his own moans would mingle with Skinner's as they devoured each other.

Alex knew what he wanted to do next to the other man. He wanted to unzip those pants and free the burgeoning erection. He wanted to lick the precome from the flared head, to nuzzle into the thick, curling hair at its base and inhale the strong masculine scent that was uniquely Skinner.

.....His fingers pulled down the zip on jeans that had become far too tight for comfort, his erection springing free from captivity, a single pearl of precome beading on the circumcised head.....

His mouth would swallow the length of swollen flesh while his hand pumped from the base, until Skinner pushed him away with a deep-throated growl of need. He would be flipped onto his stomach, his ass raised, begging to be fucked and Skinner would not disappoint him. Those thick fingers, smeared in oil would pierce the center of his being, stroking in and out of him until he was ready to take something far larger.

.....He forced one saliva-slicked finger passed the tight ring of muscle, gently massaging the soft inner wall before bringing his hand back to fist his hardened flesh, almost spoiling the fantasy with a useless wish that he still had two hands.....

He would cry out in pleasure and pain as the silken steel shaft penetrated his body, would push himself back until Skinner was fully sheathed and then rock back and forth to the rhythm their straining bodies desired, the movements becoming erratic as they strived for that ultimate release.

.....Krycek's fingers moved faster on his own heated flesh, pumping himself in time to the imagined thrusts. He shuddered as he reached the pinnacle, mouth gaping, breath gasping as he fell headlong over the edge with a strangled cry. It took a while before his racing heart slowed. He opened his eyes to find no rich chocolate eyes holding his own, no gentle smile playing about sensuous lips, and no warm breath sighing his name, or strong arms reaching out to enfold him.

"Shit."

He threw back his head and tried to ignore the stinging of unshed tears as they formed behind tightly screwed-shut eyelids. Eventually, Krycek pulled himself together and grabbed the discarded T-shirt. He wiped the spilled semen from his belly and thighs then stood up to remove the remainder of his clothes before making his way to the shower where he could wash away the evidence of his solo performance.

Eventually he made his way to the bedroom, pulled on a fresh T-shirt and a pair of shorts and burrowed down beneath the warm blankets to sleep.

****

Just before Dawn the Following Morning  
Upper Appalachians

He had been asleep when they came for him, lulled into a false sense of security within the silent reaches of this remote cabin. They had executed their entry like a finely tuned machine... smooth, well oiled. Now, as he sat in the small lounge on the overstuffed couch, handcuffed to one of the thick wooden arm rests, he was grateful for the coldness of the night air that had, fortunately, convinced him to sleep in shorts and T-shirt, rather than naked as he preferred.

Despite his demands, no one spoke to him. Instead, the four-man team ranged around him in various states of repose, playing a waiting game. They snapped to attention as the sound of a vehicle approaching reached the cabin. Minutes later, the door opened, and Krycek was not surprised to see the Smoker.

"Hello, Alex."

Spender reached into his pocket and withdrew a packet of cigarettes. He shook one from the pack and lit it, taking a deep, slow drag as if deliberately prolonging Krycek's wait. The tension in the air mounted considerably as his eyes raked across the partially clad frame.

"I gave you one last chance, Alex. A simple order. Kill Assistant Director Skinner." His eyes narrowed and the silence lengthened. "What, nothing to say in your defense? No excuses to offer?"

"Would it do any good if I did?"

Spender smiled, and Krycek could almost believe that he had a paternal look of pride for *him* on his face, before the expression on the seamed face hardened again.

"No. Both you and I know this is about far more than AD Skinner. This is about Jeffrey. My son. The man you turned against his own father..."

Krycek snorted and turned his head away, missing Spender's approach. The force of Spender's palm against his cheek snapped his head sideways.

"Fuck." Breathing heavily, Krycek glared back at Spender, green eyes blazing with hatred. "Don't give me that paternal shit. You didn't give a damn about 'poor Jeffrey'..."

A backhand across his face split open his lip and Krycek groaned, his tongue darting out to catch at the red droplets that welled from the cut before trickling down his chin.

Spender watched in fascination, his eyes narrowing as he surveyed the now disheveled appearance, but that strange feeling was coiling in his stomach again. Standing here, looking at Alex Krycek, was weakening his resolve to put an end to this thorn in his side. He choked out the words that would doom Alex before turning away.

"Goodbye, Alex."

Krycek frowned at the finality in Spender's voice, then came realization.

"Wait. You can still use me. I know things..." Krycek carried on after Spender had closed the door firmly behind him, addressing the four men instead. "I have contacts. They can get anything you want..."

A malicious smile curled up the corners of the man nearest to him just before he interrupted Krycek.

"The man said waste him but I hate to waste a good thing."

"He never said we couldn't have a little fun first."

"What are you going to do to me?"

Krycek's eyes widened in fear as the dark-skinned man pulled a palm-sized object from his pocket. With the press of a button the blade flicked upwards, the late afternoon sun glinting off the highly polished surface, highlighting the razor sharp cutting edge.

Krycek was dragged to his feet and held immobile as the man moved towards him, his eyes never leaving the face of the madly grinning knife-man with his brilliant white smile. The flat edge of the blade was pressed against his cheek, the wicked tip piercing the skin just beneath his left eye. A single droplet of blood welled up and then slid down the smooth metal. The knife eased downwards, the point dragging down the length of his throat, lightly scoring his flesh and leaving a thin red line in its wake.

Krycek closed his eyes, waiting for the blade to slice open his throat. He gasped as, instead, he felt his T-shirt being pulled. The sharp blade sliced though the neckline before ripping through the thin cotton until the T-shirt flapped open from top to bottom. He sobbed quietly as the blade went back up to trail over his chest, the point digging into the puckered skin of one nipple, drawing another bead of blood.

"He's quite the pretty one, isn't he?"

The vicious sniggers to either side suddenly gave the words new meaning.

"No. No."

He shook his head as he realised what sort of fun they intended to have.

Another pull of cloth and, suddenly, his shorts were falling to the ground around his ankles. The cool mountain air against his flesh, and the knowledge of what was to come, sent uncontrollable shivers through his body.

The rest was a haze of pain and humiliation as each of his captors took turns to abuse his body. He clearly remembered the first; the incredible pain of penetration as the knife-man forced his way into the tight, barely lubricated channel. The man had thrust hard into his unwilling flesh and Krycek had screamed out in pain and rage until his throat was hoarse. It seemed as if an eternity had passed but, in reality, it didn't take long before the man's thrusts had become erratic, and then, with a groan, the man had emptied himself into his human sheath.

Krycek remembered his head being pulled back, viciously, by the hair and a slobbering kiss placed on his bruised and bloodied mouth. The words reverberated around his head.

"Thank you. That was great."

Semen and blood did little to ease the pain as the man's flaccid cock was pulled from him only to be replaced by the engorged flesh of another as the next man stepped up behind him.

By the time the fourth man took his turn Krycek was too deeply in shock to care. He watched, as if from a great distance, as his body jerked with each snap of the man's hips while the large cock rammed in and out of him. Once the man had finished he was dropped, without ceremony, to the hard, cold floor. Laughter rippled over him as his shocked mind observed the man wiping the blood from his flaccid cock before pushing it back inside his pants. The man gave one of the others a high-five of victory.

 _Some victory. Fucking a defenseless, one-armed man._

Krycek felt the hysteria start to bubble up inside him, and fought to contain it as the knife-man knelt down beside him, pulling his head up by the hair to reveal the white column of his vulnerable throat; the most inane comments floating through his mind.

 _Should have kept that stupid-ass haircut._

He expected the knife to be drawn across his throat from ear to ear but the man smiled, almost benevolently, into his ashen, pain-filled face.

"Your innards are ripped up good, boy. In this remote place no-one is gonna find you and I don't believe you're gonna be going anywhere--though I kind of like the idea of seeing you crawling, leaving a trail of blood and cum behind you like a human snail." The man sneered. "Nah. I'm not gonna kill you outright. I'm just gonna leave you here. Might take a little longer till you bleed to death. You can spend the time thinking about what you done to piss off the boss... and to think about me, all hot and thick, reaming your pretty white ass."

"F-Fuck... you."

"If you're still alive when we get back then I may just fuck you... again." He grinned. "Hell, I may just fuck you even if you're dead."

The man hawked and then spat directly into Krycek's face, watching with pleasure as the glob of saliva slid down the side of the bloodied nose. He let go of Krycek's hair, letting his head drop to the ground with a thud. Another of his assailants dropped down onto his haunches beside him.

"Well, we'll be off now. Good sex always leaves me with a healthy appetite. Now don't you worry your pretty ass about getting a decent burial. We'll find you a nice secluded spot. Be back later."

Krycek hardly noticed as the man grabbed his face and planted an obscene parody of a lover's kiss full on his mouth. His vision was tunneling, his mind retreating beyond the pain, beyond the shame, and he watched with strange detachment as the men filed out leaving him alone, hopefully to die before they returned.

****

"What do we do?"

"Telephone's disconnected and I can't find a radio or cellphone."

"I could stay here; take care of him. You could take his car down to that small store we passed ten miles back..."

"Not leaving you here alone. They might come back."

"Can't leave him. He'll die for sure."

"Take him with us. Get a sheet or something... a blanket... then you get into the back seat with him, hold him."

"So much blood! I think he's been raped!"

"Where's the goddamn keys?"

"Forget the keys, John. Just hot-wire the motherfucker."

Alex moaned as he felt himself lifted, the dull ache in his lower back sharpening with each jarring movement. He cried out, hoarsely, as they manhandled him into the back seat. A blanket was tucked around him but did little to ease the chill that was spreading through his body. The voices continued, seeming to come from a great distance.

"Fuck. There's blood all over me now."

"Shove a towel between his legs... can't do much else."

"He's gonna bleed to death at this rate."

"Probably not as bad as it looks. What if they think we done it?"

 _What are they talking about? Done what?_ thought Alex hazily.

"Don't be stupid, Mikey. Forensics'll show that cum ain't ours. DNA checks."

 _Cum? Oh God... No. It's just a nightmare. Can't be real. Can't be real. No. NO._ "No. No..."

"Jesus, he's coming round. Hey, man, you're safe. Shit! Mind the fucking bumps."

"This ain't suburbia you know. They don't maintain these kind of tracks."

Krycek cried out as he was jarred once more. The voices were getting closer. He was already starting to form a mental picture of two young men; could feel the warmth of a body beneath his head. He tried to pull himself away.

"Keep still, Man. We ain't gonna hurt you."

Krycek cried out as the car jolted, throwing him sideways but, fortunately, Mikey stopped him from falling into the foot-well between the front and rear seats.

"Shit, John, just try to avoid a few of the damn potholes, that's all I ask."

"Don't worry, the highway's just ahead. It'll be smooth rolling from here on in."

"Where're... you taking... me?"

"Hey, man. Keep still. You're hurt real bad. You need a Doc--"

"No... hospitals. They'll find me... Kill me."

"Those men lit out--"

"NO. They're coming back... finish the job off."

"You need a Doc, Man. You don't get to a hospital and they won't need to finish you off."

"No... No hospital."

He watched the one who held him look forward; a _what the hell do we do with him_ look on his face.

"A number. I'll give you a number. Call it. Tell... what happened..."

****

AD Skinner's Office  
FBI Headquarters

There was a time when he had harbored sweet fantasies about Alex Krycek. They had started the day that oh so young and enthusiastic, fresh-out-of-Quantico kid had breezed into his office with the case notes on Dr Grissom. To most people, the cheap suit and slicked back hair would have fooled them into believing this was some green kid, but Skinner had a far more discerning eye. His eyes had caught the subtle body language of a man who had spent time in a more disciplined environment, certainly more disciplined than Quantico. The body itself was the stuff of dreams; long legs, broad shoulders, firm fuckable ass. The lean, muscular figure of a man that worked out regularly, but not necessarily in a Gym. It was an athlete's body, built for action, held in readiness despite the relaxed stance, but there was more than just a good body beneath those clothes. The figure was complimented by a beautiful face. Green eyes shone between a thick curtain of dark lashes, the pert nose with its slight upturn and those delicately shaped ears. As to the mouth...

Skinner sighed. He still had fantasies about that mouth; the deep Cupid's bow and fleshy lower lip stretched around his engorged flesh while those eyes, darkened in lust, gazed up at him. Yes. He would have Alex on his knees before him. His fingers would card through the soft, sable hair; would drift down the column of exposed neck as Krycek deep-throated him, and, all the while, those eyes would be begging for more. Skinner closed his own eyes to shut out all but this image of Alex Krycek kneeling before him. He smiled in satisfaction at the thought of having this man at his mercy: so tempted to allow his thoughts to travel down a darker path where he would use Krycek brutally; pay him back for every agonizing moment inflicted upon him by the nanocytes. But, despite all he had endured, he could not find it within him to be so violent no matter how much he felt Krycek deserved such treatment.

His fantasy continued, domination steering his thoughts rather than sadism. He would pull out of that luscious mouth and push those broad shoulders to the floor, pausing momentarily to admire the curve of the beautiful ass, raised and waiting for his hardened flesh to plunge deep between those firm cheeks.

The phone on his desk brought him back, and he shifted uncomfortably as the tightness in his pants made itself known, his eyes widening in realization of how close he had come to... to... coming, in his office, in broad daylight, with his Secretary next door, barely ten feet away.

He bit back a groan as the dull ache of unsatisfied lust spread through his body, gathered his thoughts and reached for the phone before the end of the fourth ring, speaking brusquely.

"Skinner."

When he replaced the phone in its cradle a few minutes later he had almost forgotten the fantasy. He balled up a used piece of paper and dropped it into the waste, his eyes catching sight of the broken pieces of plastic and electronics. Skinner reached down and picked up the two larger pieces of casing, fitting them together once more.

"Why, Alex? Why this... and why now?"

***

Several Hours Later  
Free Clinic  
Downtown, Washington DC

A car rolled to a stop outside the front entrance and Skinner could make out the forms of two youths, probably only in their late teens, early twenties. The voice on the phone had sounded young and frightened. He strode forward to meet the car, relaxing the severity of his expression when he caught the look of fear that passed between the two boys.

"I'm Assistant Director Skinner, FBI."

Skinner opened the rear door and glanced into the back seat, his mouth falling open in shock. They had said he was hurt bad but he had written that off as youthful panic. The blanket had slipped aside revealing Krycek's naked, blood streaked body lying curled up with his battered face upon one of the boy's lap. Sweat-soaked hair hung limply against the fevered forehead, massive purple bruises and angry red bite marks marred the ivory skin of both face and body.

"Stay there. I'll get help."

Skinner raced back into the clinic and, moments later, was followed out by a burly man with wavy salt and pepper hair. Another man, an orderly, followed close behind. The older man reached in and touched Krycek's face.

"You still with us? We're going to have to move you. Get you into the clinic where I can take a good look at those injuries."

"NO. No... hospital... Skinner... Want Skinner..."

Walter Skinner opened the other rear door, the one closest to Krycek's face. He eased the boy out and then reached in to touch the sable hair, pushing the damp locks from the man's forehead.

"It's okay, Alex. I'm here. You're safe here. Gordon Maine is a friend of mine... and he's a doctor."

"Skinner?" Green eyes, heavy with pain, with unevenly dilated pupils tried to focus on him. "I'm sorry... I'm so sorry."

Skinner swallowed angrily, unsure what Krycek was apologizing for. Was he sorry for the nanocytes? For the agony he had caused, for nearly killing him? Was he sorry for betraying Mulder, for Scully? Or was he sorry for himself? Sorry for dragging him here just in time to see him die. That last thought angered Skinner most of all for a reason he wasn't willing to fathom.

"Don't you dare die on me, Krycek."

A smile curled up the thickened, bloodied lips. "Didn't... know you... cared."

Skinner bit hard on his tongue to prevent himself from lashing out at the injured man. His face reddened as an unbidden thought entered, shattering some of the stone wall he had built around himself.

 _But you do care,_ he thought.

Krycek cried out softly, as if he had no energy left to scream, when Maine and Skinner eased him from the car with the help of the others. He was placed onto the gurney that appeared behind Maine as they struggled with the heavy, unresisting man. Skinner stilled his first impulse to chase after the gurney, and turned towards the two boys instead.

"We need to talk."

They glanced at each other uneasily and then nodded their agreement, following the AD into the clinic. Skinner pointed them to some seats, the message clear that he expected them to sit there and wait for his return. He stopped and spoke quietly to the receptionist, asking her if she wouldn't mind getting them something to drink. He glanced back at the two boys once before disappearing through a set of double doors, hoping they wouldn't skip out on him the moment his back was turned, for, as soon as he had spoken to Gordon he intended to question them on what they had seen.

"Gordy?"

Gordon Maine looked up from the where he was attaching a drip. His face was set into a hard, almost expressionless mask. He stepped aside as one of his assistants began working over the unconscious body.

"The bastards that did this tore him up bad inside. I'm having him prepped... expect to be operating within a few minutes... so make it fast."

Skinner stared across at the gurney, wondering how the Alex Krycek he knew could look so small and fragile. A stab of fear made his chest feel tight but he raised his eyes back to his friend.

"I'll be waiting outside."

Maine nodded, realizing how close Skinner had come to telling him to _do his best_... as if he did not expect anyone to put themselves out for the brutally raped man lying before him. He turned back to the task of preparing himself, his mind focusing so completely on this that he had forgotten Skinner existed before the man had even made it to the door.

****

Same Time  
New York City

"What do you mean, 'He's gone'?"

Spender's face darkened in anger as his employee explained that they had returned to bury the body but Krycek had gone.

"How can a dead man vanish?"

The gentleness with which Spender placed the phone onto its cradle belied the anger that shook his body. With outer calmness he took out and lit a Morley, sucking the nicotine and tar deep into his lungs then exhaled slowly, watching the blue-tinged plume of smoke curl up towards the ceiling. He leaned back in his chair and turned his thoughts inward.

"Incompetence. I'm surrounded by incompetent fools."

Spender picked up the phone and depressed a series of buttons.

"Send for Mr Harris."

***

Several Hours Later  
Free Clinic  
Washington DC

Skinner could hardly believe that the pale figure lying unconscious on the bed was the same man who had caused such havoc in his life, both emotional and physical. Bruises and swelling marred the perfection of the beautiful face but, underneath it all, Skinner could still see echoes of the enthusiastic, fresh-faced kid that had come into his office that first day. He reached out to touch the soft hair, carefully avoiding the tubes and wires that seemed to run everywhere; feeding drugs, removing waste, monitoring life-signs. The steady beep was strangely comforting and he drew the seat closer to the bed, reaching out to hold Krycek's right hand... his *only* hand. He turned the hand over in his own, careful not to disturb the tube taped to the soft inner arm just below the elbow. The fingers were long and slender compared to his own; the knuckles, bruised and swollen.

Skinner grimaced. At least Krycek hadn't gone down without a fight. He traced the outline of the lips that had fueled so many of his fantasies - another bruised, split and swollen feature but, like all of his injuries, it would heal in time. Spender spoke softly to the sleeping man.

"I ought to hate you." He sighed deeply. "But I don't."

In truth, seeing Krycek so vulnerable and broken had stripped away the final barrier, allowing him to acknowledge that what he felt for Alex Krycek went far beyond lust and the need to avenge himself by slaking his carnal desires on that body. The soft sound of a door opening behind him drew Skinner back from his thoughts, and he carefully replaced the limp hand upon the coverlet before half-turning in his seat to face the newcomer, expecting it to be his friend, Maine.

Skinner jumped to his feet, the chair crashing backwards as the smell of cigarette smoke drifted across the room, the blue-gray cloud wafting in the gentle breeze from the open window. He watched, warily, as Spender approached the bed, keeping himself between the Smoker and his former employee.

Spender smiled, enigmatically; a half-smile that curved up only a single corner of the seamed mouth.

****

"Don't concern yourself, Mr Skinner. I have no intention of harming Mr Krycek."

Skinner sneered. He obviously knew what had happened up in the Appalachians. The boys must have been camped close by and had been awakened just before dawn by the sudden activity surrounding the cabin. From a nearby vantage point they must have watched a man who fitted his description leave the area - and then they had heard the muffled screams from within. Morbid curiosity had overridden common sense and they had gradually drawn near, entering the cabin as soon as the four mens' vehicle had driven out of sight.

Spender leaned over to afford himself a better view of the unconscious man, silently cataloging the visible damage even as his mind dwelt on the other more serious injuries.

When he first learned that Alex was still alive he had been angry. The man was like a cat with nine lives. His first impulse was to send in another team to finish the job, but then he had discovered the abuse meted out by the incompetent, would-be assassins after he had left the cabin--and the thought was completely abhorrent to him. It was as if they had brutally raped his own son.

He had dealt personally with the offenders. Unlike Alex Krycek, there was no possibility of any of them turning up alive. They had found their own secluded burial spot in the mountains. As he had waited to hear from Harris, he had reflected on this, and it seemed strangely fitting that Krycek should be allowed to live with the knowledge of what had been done to him. Perhaps this would be a far greater form of revenge on the spirited younger man than death itself.

Locating Krycek had been far too easy but then, whom else could Alex turn to other than AD Walter Skinner? Mulder? No. Mulder would not lift a finger to help Krycek, and would, likely, just sit and watch him die. Dana Scully perhaps? Again, no. Her loyalty to her partner had been proven beyond question. There would be little benefit getting Scully to patch him up only so Mulder could injure him again... or place him in the sort of unenviable position where death would be a blessing. In the end, Krycek had only one place left to turn--to the man he...loved.

So, by the time Harris had narrowed the search down to this 'poor mans' clinic, run by an ex-Marine buddy of AD Skinner, he had decided that Alex Krycek had paid a high enough price already in his short life.

"Alex has survived several... accidents over the past few years, but I wonder just how many more lives he has left. Perhaps it's time he retired from the game."

"And if he does retire?"

"Then there would be no need for any more... accidents to befall him."

Skinner recognized the implied threat but, looking down at the vulnerable, abused figure, he realised this could be the one chance Alex had left to him.

"And the conditions?"

"It seems Alex has formed a very unhealthy attachment to you, Mr Skinner. I'm certain you will be able to persuade him to choose a new career. Something very different from his current line of work."

Skinner barely heard past the first sentence, his mind probably reeling from the possibility that Krycek might actually reciprocate his feelings. Spender dropped the butt of his cigarette into the cup of water by the side of the bed, turned on his heel and started to walk away.

"Why?"

Spender paused, glancing back over his shoulder. He knew what Skinner was asking. Why was he going to allow Alex to live when he had made so many attempts on the younger man's life?

"Perhaps I, too, have a certain attachment to the boy."

He smiled, enigmatically, then walked away without looking back, his smile broadening in remembrance of the look of bewilderment crossing Skinner's often stony face.

****

Pain. His last memory was of pain; excruciating pain... and of Walter Skinner. The deep baritone voice had offered gentle assurances, the soft touch a physical reinforcement of those words. He had been offered up to strangers, felt cool damp cloth on his heated skin, endured the sharp sensations of needles pricking his sensitized flesh... then blackness had followed the iciness that flowed up his arm as the anesthetic took hold.

He opened his eyes to mere slivers, cautiously flicking his sight around the room until he came to a figure slumped into an easy chair a few feet from the bed. He allowed his lids to open wider so he could study the sleeping form - and smiled.

Walter Skinner had removed his suit jacket and loosened his tie. The rolled up shirt sleeves emphasized the muscular arms and shoulders. For once, the AD did not look as if his own clothes were slowly strangling him. He was the type of build that never looked comfortable in a suit, unlike Mulder who looked like he had just stepped off the cover of GQ. Skinner's frame was too powerful; too muscular; too stocky, but it was the type of build that had always interested Alex. He knew the man worked out, mainly with weights but, from experience he knew Skinner liked to box too. He could understand the attraction of Boxing. It was like a dance; skilfully turning around your opponent, probing for and exploiting weaknesses with short, sharp jabs. Waiting for that moment of distraction when the guard would go down and taking advantage with forceful body blows. It was a lot like his own life, except, in the real world, it was not a game; not a sport, but a necessary means of survival.

With infinite care he started to catalog the damage to his body, but groaned as his attempt to move sent agony through his abdomen. When the pain finally let go it's tight grip he reopened his eyes to find velvet brown ones looking down into his. He froze. It hadn't been his intention to draw any attention to himself.

"How're you feeling?"

Alex stared up into the caring eyes for a moment longer before flicking his eyes away in fear and embarrassment.

"Like shit."

"If it's any consolation, Krycek, you look like shit."

"Gee, thanks. I'd hate to feel... this bad and... look like nothing happened." Krycek saw Skinner withdraw as the sarcasm reached him. "Hey, I'm - I'm sorry. Can't help being a bit of a... grouch..."

"No, Alex. You don't need to apologize."

It was an uneasy silence that descended, neither realizing the reason for this, being too wrapped up in their own fears and needs. Eventually, it was Alex who spoke.

"How bad?"

"It was touch and go for awhile."

"They... raped me."

Skinner's eyes seemed to narrow slightly under Krycek's watchful gaze. Surreptitiously, he searched the AD's face but was relieved when he found nothing but concern flood those warm, brown eyes.

"I know."

The response was soft, almost like the distant rumble of a summer storm, full of hidden meaning but Alex could detect nothing that made him seem less of a man in the AD's eyes. He didn't want the man's pity and was grateful to see none. He watched as Skinner appeared to make several attempts to say something and smiled, wryly.

"It's okay, you know. About the rape, I mean. Wasn't the first time..."

Alex frowned, wondering why he had volunteered that information, afraid it had made him seem even more of a victim knowing that he had been abused before. He knew he hadn't deserved it--then and now... or had he? Why did it seem as if everyone wanted a piece of him; his arm, his knowledge, his dignity, his life... his ass. His introspection was cut short by gentle words.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"I'm tired." His eyes widened in the knowledge that he was telling the truth. He *was* tired; tired in body, tired in spirit.

"Then get some more rest. We can always talk later. You're safe here..."

"No. They'll be back for me."

"No, they won't. Local Police made a sweep of the area where you were attacked and found four bodies in a shallow grave. Killed, execution style, with a single bullet to the back of the head."

Puzzlement crossed the battered face for a moment, and then Krycek decided those men had paid for their incompetence. He grimaced. At least it saved him the job of hunting them down and killing them himself, but...

"He'll just send someone else..."

"No. He's already been here while you were out. Seems he has decided to give you a reprieve."

 _Not 'a reprieve'... **another** reprieve. Why? When?_

"Just how long have I been here?"

"Three days."

"Three...?"

Krycek coughed as the talking irritated his dry throat. He smiled in gratitude when Skinner lifted his head and placed a straw into his mouth. He sipped at the cool liquid then motioned to be let back down.

"Thank you."

Skinner nodded. He pressed the call button and then sat back down on the easy chair. An easier silence descended as they stared across the room at each other, lost in their own thoughts. From his obvious familiarity with the room Krycek could guess that the AD had been here on a more than a few occasions. Some small childlike part of him wanted to know if it were true, wanted to be reassured that someone might actually care about him. He was about to ask when the door opened to reveal a man who seemed strangely familiar to him.

Dr Maine smiled at his patient.

"You had us all pretty scared there for a while, son. Walt has hardly left your side, except to put in minimal hours at the office."

Krycek's eyes moved back in time to see the heat rise in Skinner's face before the man turned away in embarrassment, grateful that the doctor had volunteered that information, but even more pleased by Skinner's reaction. Had Skinner sought only to ensure Krycek could not slip away before he had a chance of exacting some form of revenge, then those eyes would have remained as hard as flint. No. This was the reaction of someone who might actually care what happened to him.

He waited, patiently, until those dark eyes turned to him once more, then held them with his own. For a split second he thought he could see something he had often dreamed about.

Krycek gave a soft smile. He had always been a dreamer, never truly belonging in a world of death, lies, secrets and betrayal. He had walked along a crooked path, often falling over the cracks of his remaining conscience, only the pain and loneliness of his chosen life keeping him moving along; any remorse, sorrow and dreams of happiness buried deep. There had been no reason, and no willingness to find another path; a straighter path... not until he recognized the depth of feeling he had for Walter Skinner.

Skinner looked away as his friend, Maine, called his attention, but, as Krycek gazed through still blackened eyes at the strong profile of a man who ought to hate him, he felt a glimmer of something that he had thought was lost to him... a dream of a brighter future. He wasn't certain, and the future was by no means a clear-cut path laid out before him. But, for the first time in many years, he felt the beginnings of hope swell within.

THE END


End file.
